


A Most Unusual Courtship: The Devil's Rose

by elistaire



Series: A Most Unusual Courtship [6]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Azazel's tail is made of awesome, M/M, Romance, Roses
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-16
Updated: 2013-06-16
Packaged: 2017-12-15 02:55:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/844499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elistaire/pseuds/elistaire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Charles has invited Azazel over for a lunch in the rose garden, which is in full bloom, and also to look at a very special rose.</p>
<p>
  <i><br/>"He said he'd name it if I didn't offer any suggestions, but he thought it should be my choice, since it is technically an Xavier Estate rose."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Azazel smiled at that.  "It is said that Xavier roses are the most exquisite."</i>
</p>
<p>
  <i>Charles flushed, entirely sure Azazel was not speaking only of the flower garden. <br/></i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Most Unusual Courtship: The Devil's Rose

**Author's Note:**

> Birthday Fic! 
> 
> Every year on my birthday, I post stories for everyone else. This is one of them. 
> 
> I'm sorry I go so long between updates on this series. As it stands now, there is for sure one more story planned, and then we'll see how inspiration strikes if there are any more. Thank you all for the love you have for this very rare and unusual pairing.

The set-up was perfect. 

It had taken Charles most of the morning to prepare the food, which waited in a wicker picnic basket that he’d dug out of a pantry closet, and included fresh fruit, cheese, olives, a crusty golden bread, and a thermos of tea. Charles' initial vision had included a silver tea service, but he had bent to practicality. Tea could be fussy, and it would have required too much attention and been too difficult to have kept it from being over brewed and from growing insufferably tepid. He’d opted for the thermos, but had brought out the thinnest, most beautiful porcelain cups and saucers that he could find in the cabinets. It was a compromise he could live with. 

The wicker basket he’d placed on an iron and glass table, which provided enough space for his wheelchair, along with a dusky purple linen tablecloth he’d rescued from yet another closet, and matching linen napkins. The truly silver silverware had aged and darkened, even in its protective velvet-lined container, so he’d gone with the regular daily-use set. 

Instead of music or decorations, he had the most glorious summer day at hand, and felt particularly lucky and grateful that the weather had cooperated, and he had the entire rose garden in full bloom. 

He surveyed the garden, which was expansive and lush. His timing couldn't have been better. Almost all of the plants had numerous roses in evidence—bright splashes of boisterous color against muted greenery. The scent that filled the air was divine, and encompassing. The lightest of breezes wafted across the garden, stirring the air, so that the gentle rose aroma never quite became lost to the senses. Charles took a deep lungful of the soft, scented air, and cast a last overview of the entire ensemble, checking to see if he'd missed anything. Just as he assured himself that all was ready he felt the familiar, engaging mind of Azazel as he teleported to the front door, as was his custom. It never ceased to amaze Charles that such a renowned, fearsome individual would engage with such polite, respectful manners. 

Charles recalled that one of his initial reasons in agreeing to spend time with Azazel was in the hope that by doing so, he might soften his nature, perhaps to buy leniency in a future conflict. Perhaps the most revealing insight Charles had gained was that Azazel was not a deadly killer because of some irrevocable, bloodthirsty nature, but that he felt there to be no other choice, if he were to recreate society into such that would accept him, and not move to destroy him upon first sight. 

If Charles would never become fully comfortable with Azazel's continued association with Erik and his violent methods, he could at least begin to _understand_ what would drive a man to such lengths. He could only imagine the misery and suffering that Azazel endured, with his appearance so different. What Charles saw and loved—his brilliant coloring, his fascinating tail, and the incredible skill to teleport—only created fear and hatred in the general population. It pained Charles to the very core that Azazel could not walk unaffected through society, to enjoy the liberties that he had often taken for granted. It was a familiar fear, of course, as Charles had held his anxiety in check for decades with Raven growing up beside him. He loved her blue form, but how he had shuddered with fear over the possible discovery, and the danger it would have brought. Familiar worry through it was, it did not lessen the consequences, and it was a tangle that Charles could only start to pull at. Unraveling it would take so much time and effort. 

It did not lessen his dislike, disgust even, at the methods that Azazel aligned himself with, but Charles could understand how and why a man would be driven to it. 

Charles set his ruminations aside. Anxieties and worries were for fretting upon later, not on a grand day such as this. 

_In the garden, please_ , Charles called out mentally. 

A moment later, a desert-dry swirl of red and black appeared next to him. Azazel gave a smile to the tableau of the garden and the table, and then turned to bend low, and greet Charles with a kiss. Azazel’s hands were light but firm as he tilted Charles' head up, and delved forward, bestowing a kiss, a balm, a promise of more to come. His tail slid across Charles' forearm, to wrap around his wrist, where it belonged. It had been too long, Charles realized, since they'd been together, and the familiar weight and pressure of the coiled tail felt exactly right, and he realize how much he'd missed the security of it. 

When Azazel pulled away, his fingers curled against Charles’ skin, under his ear and across the side of his neck, leaving him with the lingering touch-memory, and a thrill of anticipation. 

“Is this the repast you invited me to?” Azazel asked. “It is lovely.”

“Join me at the table?” Charles asked. As he wheeled himself forward the incredible scent of all the roses of the garden became more noticeable. Sweet and warm, the fragrance was enhanced by the brilliant sunlight that spilled over the flowers and the glossy, green leaves. The spectacular rose fragrance, so bred-for and sought after, dominated, but underneath were hints of vanilla, and peach, and clove. The rich, raw scent of dark earth was a flash of bottom-note.

"This is a slice of paradise," Azazel commented as he walked beside Charles. 

The table was directly under an iron-worked gazebo structure with trellised walls that climbing roses had been trained across. It sat in the shade, secluded by a curtain of greenery, and hundreds of blooming roses, in shades of white, pink, and lush, vibrant red. It formed a privacy screen from the house, such that the view was only of the rest of the rose garden, where rose bushes small and large spread out amongst the stone-worked paths, and some pretentious marble and granite artwork. 

“It was my mother’s garden,” Charles explained as he offered food from the basket to Azazel. “She didn’t actually care about it one way or another, except that it should be exemplary, and better than the gardens of her friends. For a few summers, roses were all the rage, and she brought in workmen to make the garden into something splendid. She even hired away a few master gardeners from her competition.”

Azazel frowned just slightly. “Not a labor of love, then.”

“Not for her. But for one of the older gardeners that had been with us for years. She didn’t know about his passion for roses, and he kept the garden cared for, even when she dismissed the master gardeners.” Charles handed over the fresh fruit, which was a carton of strawberries, red and plump, and perfectly ripe. Charles also had crimson plums in the basket, as well as burgundy-dark pears. “That’s why it is in such excellent condition. He retired years ago, but he lives near by and he still comes to tend the rose garden.” Charles smiled and shook his head, indulgent. “He loves the roses. I couldn’t say no.”

“It is beyond beautiful,” Azazel observed, as he looked the entire garden over. He plucked a strawberry from the carton, red-pink and green against his own red skin. Charles thought he had, perhaps, started a love affair with the color red itself. Azazel bit into the fruit and the juice stained his lips, and Charles licked his own. 

“We have dozens of different varieties of roses,” Charles said, to get his mind back on the meal. He poured tea from the thermos, and Azazel arched an eyebrow at him, but refrained from commenting other than to murmur, “It’s good,” as he sipped. 

The day was sunny and warm, but the light breeze was cool, and in the shade of the rose trellis, Charles was glad for the heat of the tea as it soaked into his fingers from the cup. He nibbled on a piece of cheese, and tore off a hunk of bread. The crust crackled under his fingers and made a small mess on the tablecloth. 

For a few minutes, neither spoke as they sipped at their tea and tasted the morsels of food. Charles could feel the contented mood that Azazel slipped into, and the gentle affection that permeated him. For long minutes, it seemed to Charles that they had stepped out of the busy world and into a secret, rose-scented glade of their own, where there was nothing but companionship and love, and Charles sighed with the wash of happiness.

“I lived once, in a villa,” Azazel said in-between bites of food. “They had some roses there, though they were simple ones, and a fragile pink. They had no smell. I could not see the value of the flower.”

“Come with me,” Charles said as he finished his tea and put down the cup. He wheeled himself onto the path. The stonework had been made with a walking person in mind, but he was able to bump along at a slow pace until he had rounded a bend, and a particularly robust rosebush was before him. It had several shapely, heavy flowers in full bloom, their petals looking like soft, smoothed-out velvet, and the exact same shade as Azazel’s skin. As soon as Charles had seen it in full bloom, he'd known he had to show it to Azazel. The red of it was so deep and rich that it was difficult not to be caught up staring at it, tracing the contours with one's eyes. 

Charles bent forward, careful of the thorns. The silken petals brushed his nose and upper lip, a gossamer caress as he inhaled the scent. Next to him, Azazel did the same with another rose of the same bush. 

Azazel peered at Charles as he smelled the flower, holding its bloom in his hand, with a quirk on his lips. “It smells like desire,” he said in a low voice. 

Charles laughed. “That’s one way to describe it.” He caught one of Azazel’s hands. “This is the only one,” he said. “That gardener I told you about. He hybridized it—bred it from other roses. A few years ago. The only specimen is here in this garden. He wants to share the rose with others, and I've given him my permission. But he's never named it. Not even after all these years."

"And he's asked you for a name?" Azazel said, as he brushed the tips of his fingers across the lush petals of one rose. 

"He said he'd name it if I didn't offer any suggestions, but he thought it should be my choice, since it is technically an Xavier Estate rose."

Azazel smiled at that. "It is said that Xavier roses are the most exquisite."

Charles flushed, entirely sure Azazel was not speaking only of the flower garden. 

Azazel bent down to breathe in the lush smell. "You should call it the Devil's Heart," he said softly. He ran his thumb across the flower, and then reached the same hand for Charles, and ghosted his thumb across Charles' mouth. Charles could smell the lingering scent of the rose. 

Charles nodded, words caught in his throat. _You aren't a devil_ , he told Azazel. _Far, far from it,_ he added. The peculiarities of Azazel's form only made him that much more fascinating, and interesting, and desirable. Charles wanted to clasp himself to Azazel and smooth his fingers over that stunning red skin, feel the coil of his fantastic tail, and smell the heat and scorching scent that signaled his teleportation. Even with his telepathy, Charles thought there might not be enough time to get to know Azazel, and the years he'd experienced, and the depths he'd accumulated. 

"Only to you," Azazel replied softly, his gaze affectionate, and directed at Charles. Then Azazel's gaze sharpened, and with a tilt of his head he closed the topic. "We are done with eating?" he asked, and waited for Charles to give him a small nod. "Wait but a moment." 

The tail curled around his wrist released and Azazel teleported, leaving behind a dissipating red-black mist and the scent of hot dust. Charles heard him reappear at the iron table, and turned to see him vanish again, along with the table. Then there was stillness for a few long moments, and then a very loud displacement sound and Charles turned once again to look. 

Charles was stunned. Azazel had teleported down his _bed_. 

In the lee of the trellised gazebo, where the iron table had once been, the bed now stood. A few beams of sunlight filtered through the dense curtain of leaves and roses, but essentially the bed was shrouded from view. Azazel teleported again, next to Charles. His tail curled around Charles' wrist and he gave a sly, wicked grin. He slowly started to move forward, and Charles followed, bumping along, as Azazel plucked blooming roses, and dropped them into his lap. 

Azazel hadn't yet teleported Charles since the black box incident, and while they both seemed completely recovered, it was strange to think that Azazel might not want to teleport him again. He'd been quite upset over the consequences of transporting Charles so expediently—even if it was to save his life. Instead, Azazel had taken to bringing things _to_ Charles.

Charles missed the traveling—the operas, the ballet, the sky-diving. But he knew the unease that settled in Azazel's mind, creaking through his bones, tightening the muscles of his back and arms, as if he needed to prepare for a fight. He could feel the anxiety thrumming as Azazel contemplated taking Charles somewhere, anywhere. In time, perhaps, the issue would fade. If it didn't, Charles supposed it would just mean all the more opportunity to have Azazel at the mansion, and in his bed. Like now. But it did make him sad, that he would lose the sudden, special freedom that Azazel offered. But Azazel was more than just a ticket out of the mansion, it was his companionship that Charles craved. Charles could be patient. The black box incident had been frightening in many ways. Charles himself often now worried about Azazel's risks—he could conceivably teleport directly _into_ solid material, and that just did not bear thinking upon. 

Azazel scooped the roses from Charles' lap all in a bundle, and unlooped his tail, and in a single moment of controlled chaos, he flung them into the air, and struck out with his bladed tail. A cascade of flower petals rained down onto the bed, and the mingled perfume of the roses permeated the air. 

Azazel's tail returned calmly to Charles' wrist, and Charles tugged at it to bring Azazel down to him. Charles claimed his mouth and inched his fingers up around the back of his neck. Azazel was warm and pliant, and he tasted of strawberries and plums. 

"Shall we?" Azazel whispered into Charles' ear, as he wrapped his arms around Charles and leaned back, and they tipped back onto the bed, Charles on top of Azazel's broad chest. The breeze picked up and a few rose petals caught the wind, scattering again into Azazel's hair, his face, and across his shoulders and arms. Against his skin, each petal seemed pale and ghostly. Azazel brushed the petals away with a sweep of his hand and than ran his hand against Charles' face, down his neck, across his collarbone, and along his side. 

Charles made a sound at the contact, appreciative and yearning, and leaned in to trail kisses along Azazel's neck, who writhed beneath him with the same build of ardor. As they rolled over, the crushed rose petals released more scent, and soon Charles' senses were overwhelmed with color and smell. 

When their passion was spent, they lay together on the bed, in the quiet of the garden, with the golden sunlight streaming in. Azazel dozed, his arms curled around Charles, who was drowsy--not quite awake and not quite asleep. Charles stared into the well-tended beauty in front of him. All around was the splendor of the garden, roses at their peak, and blooming into glory. There were brilliant whites, pinks ranging from pastel to vibrant, muted purples, yellows darkening into apricot, and yet they all receded from view. 

Charles had his head on Azazel's chest, with his steady heartbeat against his ear, and all he could see as he looked were vibrant and ardent red, red, deeply red, roses everywhere.


End file.
